Chapter 8

Henry

I sit across from Meadow, trying to hold my shit together. Prying eyes stare me down, serving as judge and jury, marking me a freak before they even know me. It reminds me of my first day of art camp at the YMCA back when I was twelve.

My mom forced me to wear khakis and a sweater that day. Somehow, I succeeded at looking goofy and preppy at the same time. And back then, I had the old-style wire braces along with some puberty inspired acne.

As I walked into the old brick building with my backpack, this big, tall kid stuck out his foot to trip me. I fell face-first onto the cement. Sure, there was physical pain. Sure, there was blood. But the humiliation mortified me even more.

The bully pointed and laughed. “Take that, freak! Why don’t you go create a sculpture about it on your sissy pottery wheel!”

It seemed like an eternity passed before a volunteer stepped in. “Alright, everyone, break it up.”

She helped me to my feet. Before I even saw it, I felt the blood running from my nose. Offering me a tissue, the woman’s kind eyes showered me with a pity I didn’t want. I just wanted to be normal. To fit in. It was the beginning of my horrifying adolescence. I had always been an awkward child, even back as a toddler, molding Play-Doh. Different. And different meant tormented.

But throughout my childhood, the bullying never let up. I got called so many names, if somebody said “Dipshit,” I turned around, automatically assuming they were talking about me. Each day was worse than the one before it. Finally, I reached a point where I’d use any excuse to get out of going outside.

I loved to learn, and my favorite outside activity was Mrs. Reid’s art history class at the local community center. But I would have rather stayed confined to my bedroom than to face those cruel kids there. I became more and more isolated with each passing year. With each incident that led me to believe I was less than.

And the worst part of all? I was a freak. They were right about me all along. Everything was made worse by the fact that I stuttered. Bad. Even though I was a smart kid, I could never engage in a war with words with my tormenters. That just worsened the bullying.

Those are just a few of the memories I’m desperate to forget as I look into Meadow’s eyes. Despite their warm and empathetic glow, I just want to flee. Because of the people behind her? They’re staring at me like they long to expose my secrets just to humiliate me.

I don’t stutter in my loft or any place I’m comfortable being, but I haven’t been able to speak properly since I walked through these doors.

I make it through the soup course. But before we even have a chance to discuss the details of the showing that could save my loft, white-hot panic weaves its way through my chest again. She’s going to ask me to talk, and I can’t get out any multi-syllable words without tripping over them. For some reason, looking like a stuttering fool in front of this woman seems worse than any of the torture that I endured before I became an adult.

“I… I… re… really need to go.”

She frowns. “But, Henry–”

“So… sor…” I stand up and hurry toward the door before I lose it.

When I get outside, I feel relief flow over me since she didn’t follow me. I know I let her down. And she has every right to be disappointed in me, but I can’t even think about that right now. I just can’t stand to be around those people in that restaurant for another second.

***

The next morning, I throw on a ratty pair of jeans and a worn Van Halen t-shirt. I fill Verdi’s bowl with fresh water and head out the door.

I need to clear my head. Whenever I feel this way, a trip to Central Park or Washington Square can lift my spirits. But something inside of me feels like that won’t be enough. I take the subway to Grand Central Station. Then, I take the Metro-North train to Connecticut.

Toward home.

Seeing my folks is another beast entirely, and I find my sword too heavy to lift to wage that war. Mom will just have to wait a little longer to fuss over me in person. I have no intention on even telling her I’m in the state. I really don’t want to see people I know at all. After I get off the train, I take a long bus ride.

As I’m about to doze off, I make it to Johnson Orchards. I walk into the big barn that has been converted into a retail shop. Inside, there are about two dozen kids on a field trip with a teacher who looks exhausted. I smile at the sight of them pointing at all of the apple treats.

“I didn’t know you could make apple muffins,” a boy says. “I’ve only seen blueberry.”

“I knew that, everybody knows that,” a girl says. “But I didn’t know about apple and squash soup.”

“Okay, quiet down everybody,” the teacher says, handing each of them a bag. “And when we go out picking today, please remember to follow all of the rules. And most of all, we always stick together, right? Never lose sight of your assigned buddy.”

“Right,” they reply in that sing-song unison that only the bloom of youth can pull off.

As the pack of kids heads outside, the old woman standing behind the counter glances at me and says, “Cute bunch, aren’t they?”

I nod. “Yeah. I was probably around the same age as them when I first came here.”

Oh, perfect speech. Why did you forsake me last night?

“Well, we appreciate the business. What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to ‘pick my own.’”

“Sure thing.” She hands me a clear plastic bag. “It’s two dollars per pound, and we’ll weigh back here when you’re all done. Would you like to walk to the orchard or catch a hayride? Wallace just left to take the kids, but he’ll be back in a few.”

“That’s okay, I’ll walk.”

“Alrighty then. Have a good time, young man.”

“Thanks.” I walk out and head down the dusty road toward hundreds of apple trees in the distance. Half a mile into it, I’m wishing I had a bottle of water or some of the cold apple cider they were selling at the barn. Sweat pours down my face as I climb up a steep hill. When I reach the top, I smile at all of the trees. The air smells so sweet. I wipe away my sweat with the back of my hand and make my way toward the perfect apple tree.

I inspect the apples carefully to avoid the ones with bruises and worms. I want to pick the best ones. In the distance, I hear children laughing. When I look up, I see all of the kids on the field trip walking past me with their bags. They all look so happy.

So free. Unencumbered by darkness of any kind. The light fairly glistens around them like a protective shield.

I assume they’re about eight or nine years old, and I remember that age. At around that time, I discovered my passion for pottery. It was a good time in my life. Before the bullies, before my stuttering ruined everything. A time when I actually had friends. Younger kids always seem to be kinder.

I grab the perfect apple off the tree and toss it into my bag. I spot two more good ones and snap them off too. As I inspect and pick, the teacher guides the children down the hill. A few of the kids take off running and can’t control their speed with all the momentum. Two of them bump into each other. They almost tumble down ass over tea kettle, but at the last moment, they right themselves and laugh.

Everyone shares in their mirth, including me. I look at those kids and hope that they will grow up to be kind and good-hearted adults. It pains me to think of any of them becoming bullies like the kids who terrorized me.

I move on to another tree and grab a few more apples. As I continue to pick, I feel a creative jolt. All the sudden, I imagine all the vases I want to sculpt. I can’t wait to get back to the potter’s wheel. This nostalgic day trip to the orchard was just what I needed.

After I pick a bag full of apples, I pay for them at the barn and take the bus back to the Metro-North. As I wait on the empty platform, I think about how my parents are just a few miles away. I know they would probably like to see me, but I’m not really in the mood to be grilled about my lack of a normal life. Disappointment always seems to flicker to life in my mom’s eyes. And I don’t want to see it because then I’ll have to deal with it.

I just want to go back to the studio and create again and plug into the source of my happiness. I board the train and take a seat. I look out of the window at all of the trees and highways as I head back to the city.